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Proudhon and Kropotkin but also a man of action who had once helped Feliks rob a bank; Olga, the shabby girl, who had seemed to be falling in love with Feliks until, one day, she saw him break a policeman’s arm and became frightened of him; Vera, the promiscuous poetess; Yevno, the philosophy student who talked a lot about a cleansing wave of blood and fire; Hans, the watchmaker who saw into people’s souls as if he had them under his magnifying glass; and Pyotr, the dispossessed Count, writer of brilliant economic tracts and inspirational revolutionary editorials. They were sincere and hardworking people, and all very clever. Feliks knew their importance, for he had been inside Russia among the desperate people who waited impatiently for smuggled newspapers and pamphlets and passed them from hand to hand until they fell to pieces. Yet it was not enough, for economic tracts were no protection against police bullets, and fiery articles would not burn palaces.
    Ulrich was saying: “This news deserves wider circulation than it will get in Mutiny. I want every peasant in Russia to know that Orlov would lead him into a useless and bloody war over something that concerns him not at all.”
    Olga said: “The first problem is whether we will be believed.”
    Feliks said: “The first problem is whether the story is true.”
    “We can check,” Ulrich said. “The London comrades could find out whether Orlov arrives when he is supposed to arrive, and whether he meets the people he needs to meet.”
    “It’s not enough to spread the news,” Yevno said excitedly. “We must put a stop to this!”
    “How?” said Ulrich, looking at young Yevno over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.
    “We should call for the assassination of Orlov—he is a traitor, betraying the people, and he should be executed.”
    “Would that stop the talks?”
    “It probably would,” said Count Pyotr. “Especially if the assassin were an anarchist. Remember, England gives political asylum to anarchists, and this infuriates the Czar. Now, if one of his princes were killed in England by one of our comrades, the Czar might well be angry enough to call off the whole negotiation.”
    Yevno said: “What a story we would have then! We could say that Orlov had been assassinated by one of us for treason against the Russian people.”
    “Every newspaper in the world would carry that report,” Ulrich mused.
    “Think of the effect it would have at home. You know how Russian peasants feel about conscription—it’s a death sentence. They hold a funeral when a boy goes into the army. If they learned that the Czar was planning to make them fight a major European war, the rivers would run red with blood . . .”
    He was right, Feliks thought. Yevno always talked like that, but this time he was right.
    Ulrich said: “I think you’re in dreamland, Yevno. Orlov is on a secret mission—he won’t ride through London in an open carriage waving to the crowds. Besides, I know the London comrades—they’ve never assassinated anyone. I don’t see how it can be done.”
    “I do,” Feliks said. They all looked at him. The shadows on their faces shifted in the flickering candlelight. “I know how it can be done.” His voice sounded strange to him, as if his throat were constricted. “I’ll go to London. I’ll kill Orlov.”
    The room was suddenly quiet, as all the talk of death and destruction suddenly became real and concrete in their midst. They stared at him in surprise, all except Ulrich, who smiled knowingly, almost as if he had planned, all along, that it would turn out this way.

TWO
    L ondon was unbelievably rich. Feliks had seen extravagant wealth in Russia and much prosperity in Europe, but not on this scale. Here nobody was in rags. In fact, although the weather was warm, everyone was wearing several layers of heavy clothing. Feliks saw carters, street vendors, sweepers, laborers and delivery boys—all sporting fine factory-made coats without